


My Very Thoughts A Curse

by Quanna



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Coping Mechanisms, Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Prosopagnosia, Telepathy, Touch Telepathy, queerplatonic whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quanna/pseuds/Quanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the Doctor gets lost in his own head. Clara makes him tea and waits. </p><p>Queerplatonic Twelveclara, with relatively healthy coping mechanisms for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Very Thoughts A Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for: dissociation on the Doctor's part, brief suicide-related imagery, mildly implied self-harm, referenced problematic touch-telepathy, two brief background mentions of telepathy, and implied prosopagnosia. 
> 
> Coping mechanisms are drawing and drinking tea. It is however, still pretty sad, so please take care. 
> 
> Thanks to the usual people for helping with this.

_"Head's too full of stuff, I need a bigger head."_

_\- Tenth Doctor, silence in the Library._

 

* * *

 

 

The Tardis always sounds different when this happens.

 

He stumbles into the kitchen, slender frame sagging against the cupboards and curling slightly to make him take up the least amount of space.

 

She pushes the dirty plate back into the soapy water and checks the damage.

 

No wounds, cuts, or bruises, minimal amount of dirt. Silver hair no messier or longer than usual and no signs of stubble or beard grow. Internal, non-physical wounds, then. Coat, hoodie and holey jumper; the things he wears when he’s not comfortable in, and with, his own skin. Beautiful hands knotted tightly together, knuckles white, mostly hidden in his sleeves. He’s projecting too, a desperate _stay away_ pushing at the edge of her mind. Eyes cast to the ground, gaze firmly fixed on the floor. Wherever he is, it is light years away from the linoleum he’s standing on.

 

She makes him tea in the dark blue mug nobody else is allowed to use.

 

She carries it to the living room, sets it down on the table and goes to fetch the sugar and her own mug. Body on full automatic, he follows meekly, perching on the end of a dining table chair.  She sets down the sugar pot as careful as she can, and slides a pad of dark grey paper towards him. He sits unmoving in exactly the same position, back hunched and eyes firmly on the clenched hands in his lap.  

Taking the chair opposite him, she collects her work, a red pen and a long piece of chalk in hand. The first is hers, the second she gently breaks in two and puts next to the paper for him, a bit on each side.

 

She waits.

 

A few minutes, an hour. He’s never explained properly, but she knows what it’s like to be strangled by your own thoughts. His head is like his ship, filled with the stories from a thousand stars, a dozen lifetimes over. Sometimes he gets lost, and it’s left to her to guide him back.

And so she drinks her tea and does her marking, shifting papers around and tapping scores out on her phone. There’s quite a lot to get through but only a few mistakes; they’re getting there. Most of them even signed and dated the work.

Just as she’s starting to sort everything into piles by year and name, he stirs. It’s too small to even be called a movement, his shoulders slumping the tiniest bit. Fighting his way to the surface; he’s coming back bit by bit.

He’s got his eyes closed but he’s bent over the paper, chalk tight in both his hands. Utterly absorbed, vigorously tracing lines over the paper and scratching at the corners. She can’t see what he’s doing so she lets him work, organising her papers further until he demands her attention by sliding the paper forwards. She takes it from him, turns it round, and gasps.

He has scratched the lines of his own silhouette deep into the paper, hard and unforgiving traces etching out his bones. His face is blurry, facial features a few indistinctive broken lines.  

She’s guessed for a while he may have trouble recognising faces, evidence mounting with every drawing he makes. She knows it’s more of an issue too, now he cannot distinguish like he used to, almost every touch burning him instead with unwillingly absorbed emotions.

The figure has got its hands raised to its head in a contorted scream, mouth a darkened, gaping hole. Standing outside what is unmistakably the Tardis, distorted though it is pictured. the lines on the time machine are softer and less hastily drawn; care has been taken in depicting her. A key lies on the floor near the figure, shattered into several pieces, lines running from the ship to the figure but breaking off above the key.

 

The realisation makes her heart drop to her stomach.

 

Something attacked the Tardis, attacking him, and it’s triggered all the fear and despair from all the other times. It’s a universally known fact he’ll do anything for those he cares about, and his ship is by far his biggest weakness.

 

She’s tried it once, and they ended up in Hell.

 

With her pen, she sketches out a smaller figure next to his, holding out its hands, and pushes it back towards him. The feelings at the edge of her mind gradually subside, and they both breathe a sigh of relief.

He’s dumping sugar in his tea when she next looks up, holding the packet open over his cup. Doesn’t stir, just drinks it straight as it is, a small mountain in the middle. It slows his brain down, helps him get his thoughts under control.

 

The drawing has disappeared in the inside pocket next to his hearts.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> At the end of the day, doctor/tardis is the only otp that really counts on this show.
> 
> Title from 'Elysium' by Bear's Den, my ultimate Twelve song because I am in fact a pretentious shit and Bear's Den is currently my favourite band.


End file.
